


Sun, the Sweat, and You

by Leszre



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Two books' timeline, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29681157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/pseuds/Leszre
Summary: Elio returns to Villa in B after a couple of days and finds Oliver in a very familiar spot with a little twist.
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	Sun, the Sweat, and You

**Author's Note:**

> –Timeline vaguely sat around early to mid 2000s, a year after Oliver’s return to Elio.   
>  –This can be read as separate or with the [Spy!_Elio_AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293419/chapters/66684877).   
>  –Canon typical Elio’s fetish of Oliver’s feet and his sweat.

An unmarked black sedan pulls into the courtyard. It appears to be around noon as the hot Italian summer sun is almost blindingly bright and high above in the sky. The delightful crunch of gravel rolling under the tires of a vehicle (that looks quite out of place to belong to someone living in B) comes to a slow and the left backseat door swings open. A long lanky figure pushes out of the car and shares a brief farewell with the driver. It’s Elio; neatly folded suit jacket in his grip. As the car circles rest of the villa’s courtyard, he raises his edge-curled palm, his fingers tipping a soft salute. Once the tail of the visiting sedan disappears out of his view, Elio straightens his upper back, expanding his chest, with a lazy lift of his chin. It looks as though he can finally breathe. His forehead begins to glisten and he huffs under his breath before pushing the flat of his dress shoes to the ground.

Just passing the entrance, Elio takes off his sunglasses and blinks his eyes to adjust to the interior light. He peeks his head in the study. He tips his eyebrows a little. There’re signs of him being there but no Oliver.

Amara, a house madam who took over after Mafalda retired, comes over to greet him and asks after him. Elio thanks her as he swaps his jacket with a freshly made lemonade.

“(Where’s Oliver)?” he asks.

Amara tells him that she remembers seeing him in the study this morning, “(I don’t know. I was in the back garden after that).”

“Grazie.”

She then carries on updating him about what has been going on with the villa and such. Elio nods and gives proper responses. When he reaches for the cigarette so skillfully with one hand, not letting go of the lemonade in his other, Amara gives him a pointed look. Elio pulls his face into a smile (not to mention a guilty look), lifting his open palms in mid-air, the unlit cigarette slotted between his lips at the corner of his mouth. When she clicks her tongue, (though she is a couple of years younger than Elio, she does fill Mafalda’s shoes quite well) Elio shrugs his shoulders indolently. She shakes her head with a soft smile before walking away into the other hall way.

Elio chuckles under his breath as he brings his fingers to light the cigarette perched between his lips. He rolls his tongue deftly over it to bring it close before the butane lighter glows blue with a brief yet powerful shushing noise. Yeah, sure, no one in this day and age smokes an actual cigarette. E-cigarettes and all. Yet something about the texture and the feel, and especially the scent of thin rolled paper holding tobacco leaves is… . Elio takes a long drag and tosses the last of his thought aside and simply concludes his adolescent memory (and habit) has everything to do with it. He briefly debates whether to go to the master bedroom to change: a place that used to belong to his parents, that turned into his and his room since Oliver’s return a year ago. Instead, he decides to walk towards the patio where the long years of remembrance of dinner drudgeries are being held. Correction: Elio saunters, vaguely and so nonchalantly, his free hand pushed deep in his pant pocket, letting the past couple of days’ fatigue settle over him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turns the corner. Everything slows. The surface of the tall glass in his grip is dewing. The ice cubes let out tiny clear crisp rings. He can hear the balmy summer wind blowing through the dense dark green leaves in and around the villa. Elio hums at the bottom of his throat, extending his fingers to release the cigarette from his lips. And he just stands there, without taking further steps. A slow yet fond closed-lipped smile blooms over his face.

On the very spot where Oliver laid on his back, with his straw hat over his face, sunbathing all those years ago (the afternoon Elio sat at the old bench with his acoustic guitar strumming his fingers in one of Bach’s piece), now-Oliver is in a headstand (Sirsasana). Still lean and taut, an avid runner's body, Oliver is in complete still and abscent of any motion, upside down: eyes softly closed.

Huh, Elio muses to himself.

Elio remembers Oliver telling him about how he got into yoga, and the little story of his yoga instructor and the guy whom together reminded him of Elio. Of course, how could he forget the fantasy that ran in his head before him deciding to find his way back to Elio?

It is a sight. Elio can see the light sheen of sweat gleaming as the shade of leaves sways the hot summer sunlight through. The way it brushes over his skin is so… delicious and makes him want to take a picture. With another sip, and a slow long bob of his throat, Elio decides to close the distance. As he becomes closer, he can see the large sweat beads drawing a lazy line long Oliver’s body. Elio subdues a low growl. The soft city folk feet that never ventured to walk on gravel and dirt like Elio’s up in the air look so scrumptious, with those long slender toes looking so appetizing like salt water taffies he could spend hours suckling on. He cannot help but to moan out a content sigh through his nose.

“I’m glad your home,” Oliver says low, without a shift or a single fiber change.

Elio just hums. He should be used to it by now. The travel to Alexandria last year as Miranda called it their honeymoon and them deciding to keep this place as their summer aboad; yet hearing Oliver say the word _home_ each time feels new. It stirs an emotion Elio feels he can never get familiar. The surreal nature of it all that altogether makes him want to pinch himself to make sure it is _his_ reality, not another spectral image or a far distant echo of his past.

“It’s better than the coffee,” Oliver explains.

“Got stuck?”

Oliver hums, his eyes still closed his head-stance immaculately rock solid. Elio can tell the hint of remorseful sigh in his wordless reply. Oliver has been writing a book on the seeming amnesia of non-hetero culture (and their acceptance or vehement denial, to put it midly) that had long been deeply rooted in our human history. It is one of Oliver’s ways of activism in his ever so scholarly and academic way. Elio has been a crucial part of the process, as he was told more than twice. A tradition two carry on and didn’t have much trouble picking it up from all those years ago (like that afternoon seventeen-year-old Elio saw Oliver pouting in his cute self-deprecating mode by the pool before he rolled and plunged himself into the water): of Elio being a good listener and an awesome sounding board.

Elio takes another step. And he tilts his head back. His nose is dangerously close to the top of Oliver’s bare feet.

“I haven’t seen you for almost two days and the first thing comes to your mind is that?” Oliver mutters, knowingly flexing his foot a little.

Elio makes a non-committal noise at the top of his throat, bringing his cigarette into his lips. Oliver is wearing a green swim trunk. That means something still, even more than twenty years later.

“Mhmm, I don’t know,” he shrugs. And ever so slowly, he leans the edge of his lips on the skin around Oliver’s ankle, his arm wrapping around Oliver’s legs hugging the mugginess and the hot air as well, “maybe I can inspire you uh… a breakthrough,” and he presses an open mouth kiss, doing a dainty cat-like lick. The smell of his skin and the taste of the salt that are only Oliver greet him.

That’s when he hears Oliver chuckle. Oh, how he missed it. Low tenor rumble that always seems to make Elio relax and shiver at the same time.

“I’d say you are making up for the time,” Oliver blink-opens his eyes as Elio leans his head down, leaving a lazy trace of his lips along the inside of Oliver’s leg.

It’s amazing how sturdy Oliver can keep his stance. When Elio’s lips make it over to the half-hard bulge of Oliver’s trunk, Oliver folds his knees. His chocolate curls that are damp at the roots fall away casting an added light shade over Oliver’s face.

“I’m not bashful,” Elio adds starting to kneel at the corner of the folded towel over the mat.

Oliver chuckles more and Elio swivels in a tight circle and parks his butt on the ground, dragging the hand of his encircled arm over the professor’s bulging front. Oliver hinges his hips forward slow, his belly sucked in a little, as he folds his body in lowering his upper legs until both knees touch the folded fabric. Meanwhile, Elio’s possessive hand moves along the motion and now the palm and his fingers are rubbing deft circles around Oliver’s taut gluts.

As Oliver fills his lungs in an extended inhale, Elio’s fingers draw a long line along up Oliver’s spine effortlessly over his sweat damp skin. The professor unfurls his upper body and his head is the last one to come up, at the top of his intake of air.

Of course, Elio is leaning so close, and their noses almost brush against each other’s.

“Mhm,” Oliver lets out a tut-like hum, “Amara didn’t you see you yet?” Oliver means Elio smoking.

“She did,” Elio replies nonplused, lifting now-almost half emptied lemonade in his grip, taking another drag. His eyes twinkling with an arousal Oliver can never miss to recognize.

Oliver simply hums quietly. And the good professor tilts his chin a little and leans his lips over the top of Elio’s mouth as the smoke streams out of Elio’s nose. Elio moans low, kissing him back, and wraps his arms around his broad sweaty shoulders. And two men smile wide as they kiss away the time apart. Unhurriedly, relishing the triumphant victory of their reunion.

| | | FIN | | |

**Author's Note:**

> Sirsasana mentioned here is A version where one makes a tripod of oneself with two forearms and the crown of one’s head. It’s highly recommended to unfold as one goes into this typical headstand and fold back in reverse to get out of the pose, for a smooth transition of the blood circulation.  
> .  
> It seems... that I'm on a fluff-crack. The image landed on me like a lightening and kept repeated: over and over and over and over. For a few days, *eyeroll* I thought it would go away, but it _didn't_. So I had to logo-vomit and you are reading about it. *long sigh*  
> .  
> As Always, thank you for reading your time and interest.  
> Please do kindly remember, we are going for winning the war. And it may feel as though we are on the next stretch of triathlon, with open and joyful heart, calm and serene mind, unconstrained and bright soul, please stay healthy and safe.  
> .  
> (Oh, yeah, I know I sound like some new age whoo-whoo bs but... finding strength within and with the people you love and care are the ultimate unyielding source to get through this odd _and crazy_ time of our lives. So if not for anything and anyone else, I shall hold your heart, your hopes and dreams, if you'd let me. *prayer hands* *head bow*)  
> .  
>  **[Special Thanks to]** : (alphabetical order as the King Arthur’s roundtable style may be a tad too dramatic LOL. This has always been my tradition, and I update this list on each fic, periodically.)  
> A_scandal_in_my_mind_palace,  
> blackbird_onmy_shoulder,  
> Chrisaki,  
> Harlech1000,  
> ilovelife19,  
> Kittenpurple,  
> lycanus1,  
> mmm0918,  
> Volmarto,  
> +  
> those who subscribed, bookmarked, and all anon who sent kudos--!  
> .  
> 


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